I’m no stranger to the NYC bar scene. In fact, as a frequent visitor of the city that never sleeps prior to permanently taking up a residence, I quickly became familiar with the late nights that wind up happening when you visit NYC. But being a visitor is worlds different than being a resident; the NYC bar scene is quite literally killing me.
When I’d come in as a visitor, my friends and I would be amped to see each other. We’d get the drinks flowing, maybe pop some amphetamines to juice up for the marathon, and then stay out until bar closing – at 4 a.m. – then come home, maybe crush some pizza, play some FIFA, and crash somewhere near 5 a.m. Then we’d get up, brunch, and do it all again the next day. Then I’d return to Boston, where bars close at a reasonable 2 a.m., but I’d probably only push the Boston bar closings once every few weeks. Mostly because my Boston pals didn’t feel the urge to stick around the bars long enough to make the last ditch attempts to scrape up the urchins clinging to the sticky floor who look for a sophomoric yuppie to come pay them some attention.
But I’m in New York now, and I’ve all of a sudden got a new playground to play in. It’s like a kid with a season pass to Disney. It’s like Vince Wilfork finally has access to a buffet every single day. It’s sensory overload. Babes everywhere. Bars open at all hours, deep into the night. More friends to encourage bad decision making. Everyone’s hot. Everyone’s drunk. It’s surreal.
In the past few years, I probably saw 4 a.m. maybe eight times? Ten tops? And I’d say 90% of those were all as a visitor to NYC (the only exception was a wedding in Vegas). But in the last two-ish months of being in NYC as a resident and I’ve probably tallied an equal number of nights that saw me finally seeing the back of my eyelids past 4 a.m. Several on back to back nights, too. And it’s a blast. But I think I’m spiraling towards death.
You know what this behavior does to your Sundays? You drag. You almost – almost – don’t want to do some brunching on Sundays. Sunday Scaries like the pros do it. Panic Rooms like you write about. It wears you down. It sets you up for a week of failure. Tough to deal close and put nose to grind all week when your previous weekend was one constant bender. It’s like I’m starting the week with the bases empty, two outs, down in the count 0-2. No way I can possibly hit any business bingo dingos when slept maybe ten hours during the weekend.
I should probably stop staying up to all hours on the weekends. I should. But I probably won’t. Because if we’re being honest, your boy can do some damage after 2 a.m. Lots of hot leads going right to the top of the funnel. And it’s not the sloppy drunks I’d normally have to try and scrape off a grimy dance floor reminiscent of the frat basements we used to frequent (which, bee tee dubs, probably set us all up to get mesothelioma, but I digress). Instead, there are some bona fide five-tool prospects still having a grand time deep into the night.
I pull numbers at 2 a.m. I have DFMOs like I’m seventeen again at 3 a.m. I get shot down trying to bring her back to my place at 3:30 a.m. I crush pizza and drunk text her at 4 a.m. Wash rinse repeat. Bingo bango bongo. That’s New York living, baby!.